More Than Life Itself
by xBits
Summary: They killed to stay alive, because they all had a reason to. And maybe, just maybe, one of Ja'far's few reasons were those simple words spoken by the enigmatic man he met years ago. And maybe, just maybe, this man's words could save him once again. SinbadxJa'far, a bit of YamuraihaxSharrkan
1. Be This Sunset Soon Forgotten

They sit entwined on the cold dungeon floor.

He holds her in his arms as she cries, fingers tangled in the golden locks. He clutches her to his chest, his free arm gripping her back tightly, painfully. But the pain is welcome, pain is good – it will remind her - she's alive. The feel of a warm body next to her, soothing words whispered into her ear, gentle caresses and lingering kisses on the forehead – would it make her want to live?

Even so, he can't bring himself to do any of that. It'd feel like a lie – any and all of the kindness he could offer her. So he clutches harder.

Her sobs pierce the silence.

She mumbles something into his chest; incoherent. He waits for her to speak again.

Ever so softly, she speaks, in a voice that is barely more than a whisper:

"I can't."

He wastes no time to reply: "You must."

He knows it's cruel and, by the way the shock shakes her small frame as she lets out another heart-wrenching sob, she feels it too. The cruelty of a friend comes as a reminder. It's as if he had said – there is no place for kindness in this world we live in. She knows it too, he's sure. But how someone so pure can live among these people that surround them at this very moment, giving them dirty glances, as if to say: 'Keep the damn brat quiet or I'll cut of both of your tongues and feast on them for dinner' (oh, he doesn't have to imagine, he's heard enough to know the thoughts running through their rotten minds, he's thought enough of the very same) – he doesn't know, he cannot grasp.

The girl who wakes up to bird's song, however rare such songs may be, and whistles along, who smiles happily and offers her share of old bread to that hungry little kid in the corner of their musty, grey room, even when she's starving herself. He shoots her a look, that hungry little kid, but takes the bread nonetheless. He devours it in a matter of seconds. Then, a few hours later, he clutches his stomach in mock horror and starts screaming about moldy bread and a poisoning attempt. Her punishment is three days without food, and you can guess who her share 'rightfully' goes to.

Next morning, the kid is found restricted with all-too-familiar looking red wires, feet bound to a rusty metal pole in the corner of the room, hands tied behind his back, his food for the day laid on the floor in front of him in such way that he could almost graze it with his teeth if he were to bend forward and stretch out his neck, but not quite.

They are both left without food for three days, but he deems it worth it, if just to see that amused little smirk on her face – the one she always seems so set on hiding.

The silence snaps him back to the present. The cries have stopped, she's breathing heavily against his chest: In; out, in; out – just like they practiced, too many times to count.

"I can't," she repeats, but her voice is no longer muffled. It's loud and clear and certain.

"Pisti..." his words catch in his throat. Of course she can't.

"I'll do it in your place," he offers, not really thinking it through. He's desperate to see any expression on her face – a smile, a frown, a quirked eyebrow, pouty lips – anything would do. Just not pain; never pain.

"You can't, Ja'far," she sighs. "They'll be watching, you know that."

They lapse into silence. It's deafening and it's malicious, mocking him for saying something so stupid. It feels like years before she speaks again:

"I'll fail," she states. "You're aware of that, aren't you?"

He looks at her and sees resignation. She's so far gone, eyes clouded by languid waves of mist, cold, not yet devoid of any emotion, but not bright and smiling either – for her, it's not much better than being a doll on a string. If there is the will to live somewhere in those eyes, she's doing a damned good job at hiding every single trace of it.

"It doesn't matter if you fail. I failed once too!" he tries to reason, with her, or with himself – he's not sure.

Pisti snorts. It's an ugly sound for her to make. "The one time you failed was the time you tried to off the future king of Sindria, one of the most powerful people in the world. Nobody expected you to succeed. Nobody even expected you to come back alive. They were just playing with your life that time. "

Ja'far knows that he should focus, that he should say something – anything, but he can't stop the overflow of images that engulf his mind at the mention of that time – the tall, muscular, young man underneath him, holding his wrist in a strong grip, whispering: "You don't want to do this. Not really." The feel of the man's arms around his body (such a foreign feeling), the earthy scent of the long, dark hair he's buried his face into and – "You can do it now," the man reminds, a smile in his voice, "I haven't taken it." His weapon still securely wrapped around his arms, the bladed tip barely an inch away from the man's heart. He drops it to the ground…

"Ja'far?" the girl murmurs, bringing his attention back to her. Tears are lurking in the edges of mahogany eyes. Ja'far almost wishes they would fall. It seems more like her to cry than to snort. Tears make him feel like he hasn't lost her; yet.

"I can't kill that man." It's a statement, more than anything else. And now the key word is out in the open:

Kill.

The word holds little meaning to Ja'far. They show him a picture and say: "It is to be done in a week," (sometimes, they're generous and he has a month, sometimes their frantic and he has a day – it makes no difference to him – he always makes it in time). It has gained him quite a reputation – the quick, quiet way in which he handles his missions – cruel, ruthless, they would say - the others. He finds it preposterous at best – for an assassin to deem anyone, much less another assassin, cruel. He doesn't really feel he is. But then again – he barely feels anything nowadays.

Pisti would scream and shout at them to shut up and mind their own business, that Ja'far had more kindness in him than all of them combined. He's always thought she was kidding herself. Nevertheless, he let her try to convince him otherwise. She never succeeded. She never stopped trying.

"Thank you, Ja'far," she says now, voice shaking slightly, "for being so nice to me."

It's Ja'far's turn to snort at the utter ridiculousness of her thoughts: "I'm telling you to go murder somebody. And you call me nice?"

She smiles for the first time in a while and snuggles closer to him, laying her head on his shoulder: "Yeah."

"You're messed up," he laughs a little, but it's humorless.

"Aren't we all?" she retorts. And yes, he thinks, they really are.

They are trying to keep talking now, because silence is a terrible thing - an uninvited creep chilling them to bone with its cold breath, blowing gusts of freezing wind in their ears, paralyzing, deafening them.

"You can do this," he says, even when he knows the words are empty promises, carrying no real meaning.

She lifts her head and looks at him with tired eyes, so much older in their depths than they should be, and says the words he has been dreading to hear all along:

"I'd rather die."

His grip on her shoulder tightens: "No! You know I can't let you," he tries to reason, desperate.

"It's better than this!" she hisses angrily. "Why do you even care so much? About staying alive?"

It's a perfectly good question, the one he can't even remember the answer to – or maybe there isn't one answer, no correct answer, but – those words:

"_Live on!"_

Each and every time, he remembers those words, and he can't bring himself to. He's being selfish, he knows that, but she is one of his few reasons to persist, so few he can't name any more (are there more? Those words, maybe – are they really?), and he can't – won't! lose her.

"When I fail…they'll kill me."

"IF you fail," he can't help but correct, even though he wonders if it really is a correction. "And they won't. It's only your first mission. And even they wouldn't kill a ten-year-old girl."

She shots him a glare as if to say - _like they care_ – and begins to speak urgently, fervidly, her voice becoming louder until she is all but yelling, not caring about the spectators:

"Fine, they won't kill me. They'll wait for a few more years, see if they have any use of me, if they find _something _I'm useful for, use me for it, then kill me. How's that?" she spats.

Ja'far cringes at what he knows _something_ implies.

"I'll say it again – I'd – rather – die!" And he can't blame her. He searches frantically for the words to say but his mind is blank. There is no reasoning this, since there was never one bit of reason in it in the first place.

"When it comes to it, I'll kill myself," Pisti announces quietly, but with no doubt in her voice.

The words are out of his mouth before any coherent thought forms in his mind:

"NO!"

He realizes he shouted from the irritated grunts around them, but he doesn't care. Against his chest, he can feel her body trembling with silent rage and when she finally looks up to face him, she suppresses the shuddering long enough to glare angrily at him and hiss, emphasizing every word:

"Do you remember the way _she_ cried, Ja'far? Do you remember her screams?"

* * *

A/N: So...this is my first attempt at a longer story. I'd really appreciate reviews, since I don't really know what I'm doing at this point. But maybe it's too soon to ask. I'll try to get the second chapter ready soon. So yeah...tell me if it interests you.


	2. We Laughed Until We Cried

Ja'far remembers the day they met as the first day he laughed in a long while.

Pisti watches the pair in amusement, peeking behind the dungeon wall. Every so often, she giggles and has to stifle the betraying sound with her hand.

"Stop stalking them," Ja'far chides, irritated. He can't quite figure out why Pisti is suddenly so insistent on following the girl's and the boy's every move.

Pisti sticks out her tongue at him: "'m not stalking," she grumbles.

"Uh-huh."

She takes is as a challenge: "Am not!"

"Are too," he sighs in desperation, begrudgingly accepting the childish game.

"Am not!"

"Are too."

"Am not!"

The next 'are too' comes soon enough, but the voice is not the same.

"AM no – huh?"

She looks at Ja'far in bewilderment, but he has his attention otherwise occupied by something very much obviously situated behind her, since he seems to be looking over her shoulder with a look of bewilderment of his own, which not only matches, but, she would dare say, far exceeds her own.

She spins on her heel and – sure enough, there is something – or rather, someone there, and it's someone she's become quite familiar with in the past few weeks.

The dark-skinned boy has his arms crossed over his chest, a contemplating frown on his face:

"Did you think we were stupid or something?" he grumbles, clearly unhappy with that possibility.

"N-n-n-o…" Pisti stammers, eyes big as saucers.

"You thought we wouldn't notice?" he prompts further.

"Well, we – "

"Hey! Don't bring me into this," Ja'far complains. He really doesn't want to get on anyone's bad side. Although, when he thinks about it - if Pisti gets on someone's bad side, he'll be right there in the same boat with her. Hell, he'll even take the wheel, judging by the way things normally go.

Pisti shoots him a look which morphs back into a charming smile impossibly fast as soon as she turns her head to look at the boy, a sheepish expression on her face:

"Yeah, _I_ kinda hoped you wouldn't."

And then the boy, obviously confused by this embodiment of innocence and purity, turns his attention to Ja'far: "Why were you stalking us?"

Ja'far's jaw almost drops to the floor as he stares at the boy with wide eyes: "_I_ didn't have anything to do with it! She was the one stalking you!" he exclaims, to hell with all friend-protection business.

"Well, I can't exactly yell at her when she looks at me like that, now can I?!" the boy states, as if it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"That's _really_ not my problem," Ja'far mumbles, not exactly knowing where the boy is going with this.

"She's your protégée, isn't that right? Take responsibility!" the boy demands, his head held high, pointing his finger at him. Ja'far can almost imagine a sword being pointed at his chest at the intensity of the boy's glare. He has the stance of a swordsman too, Ja'far notes, with no small amount of worry.

"I'm telling you, I really don't – "

"Umm, excuse me…" Pisti mumbles, smiling slightly. "The reason I was stalking you…well…I-I just thought you were really cute and…and…"

Jaws do drop to the floor this time, two of them, in fact.

"PISTI!" Ja'far yells, scandalized.

The other boy, on the other hand, looks incredibly pleased with himself:

"Well, if that is so, my lady…" he bows, putting one hand on his chest and reaching out to take Pisti's hand with the other one.

Pisti, realizing what is going on, goes beet red: "AHH! NO! No, no, no! I didn't mean…I mean…that is, err…"

The boys look at her in confusion. Ja'far, seeing a spark of hope, prompts cautiously: "Well, what is it, Pisti?" He doesn't think she's ever looked so embarrassed in her life.

"I-I-I just m-meant…you were really cute…you and that girl you're always with," she finishes in a small voice; gaze firmly fixed to the ground.

One.

Two.

Three.

"WHAT?!"

* * *

He's pale, so very pale, sitting on the floor, his back against the wall and head between his knees. It would be a sad sight, Ja'far thinks, if it wasn't so damn amusing.  
The boy seems to be positively agonizing over Pisti's previous remark. One might actually be worried if not given information about the cause for his current predicament. He does look like he's going to be sick, after all.

He mutters something about crazy little girls and serious brain damages.

"Aww, don't be like that. She has a point, you know. You two are _really_ cute," Ja'far teases. He doesn't really know what he thinks about the pair, not having stalked them nearly as much as the bubbly girl whose eyes light up at Ja'far's approval. He's seen the girl a couple of times – light blue hair and a staff in her hand, dressed in rags just like the rest of them – that's mostly what he can remember; he's heard her too – throwing insults at the boy which he would then promptly throw right back at her. He tried not to concern himself too much with their antics. But then Pisti happened. And this boy happened. Now his interest is peaked and he doesn't see the way out of this showing itself anytime soon.

The boy glares at him: "You know, I think this disease is spreading at a worrisome rate. How 'bout I just off you two and save the sanity of many?" he suggest, eyes narrowing dangerously, as he unsheathes his sword in a threatening gesture. _'So, swordsman then, or a wanna-be one at least,_' Ja'far confirms his suspicions.

He eyes the sword suspiciously, fingers curling around red wires underneath his baggy robes. Before either of them can make a move, though, they are interrupted by an angry voice:

"Hey! You idiot old men! Stop bullying them!"

"I'm not bullying anyone, stupid witch!" the boy yells back immediately, as on a reflex. "And what kind of idiotic insult is 'old man'?! I'm thirteen for God's sake!"

"Shut up! It's because that stupid white hair! You look like a miniature old man! No! It's an insult to old men! At least they don't have your ugly face! And you're not thirteen, you're twelve! I'm two years your senior! Show some respect!"

"I'll be thirteen in less than a month and you just turned fourteen, witch! Don't twist everything around to your liking! God, this is why I hate magicians!"

The girls face turns red with anger: "What did you say?! Magic is a hundred, thousand, no – a million times better than those idiotic swords of yours, idiot swordsman! And don't call me a witch! I'm a sorceress, s-o-r-c-e-r-e-s-s, get it?!"

"Yeah, yeah, witch. You're right – swords are awesome! What did you say? A million times better than magic? Well, I don't know, I was thinking – a billion! How's that?"

"Y-Y-YOU – "

Suddenly, Pisti is laughing. The foreign sound fills the room as she clutches her stomach with one hand and tries to stifle it with the other one, her body shaking with every breath she manages to suck in between her giggles. Her eyes fill with tears and she hiccups: "Ahh-hah – don't - don't mind me," she laughs. "Carry on, please," she tells the odd pair who have ceased their verbal battle to look questioningly at the young girl.

The blue-haired girl seems to snap out of her daze as she runs to Pisti and kneels down next to her, putting a hand on her shoulder.

"I'm sorry! I'm sorry for all the trouble this idiot caused you! I'll make sure he pays!" she promises, determination flaring in her eyes.

"Hey! Who said I caused trouble?!" the boy complains loudly. "They were the ones stalking us!"

"You shut up! I don't believe a word you say!" she yells back, then turns to Pisti once again and smiles: "What's your name?"

Pisti grins happily at her soon-to-be-friend: "Pisti! And this here's Ja'far," she chirps, pulling a very confused Ja'far closer by a sleeve.

The blue-haired girl casts them a bright smile and Ja'far has to wonder where the loud, hot-headed girl from just a minute ago went.

"I'm Yamuraiha," she says and turns her attention to Ja'far: "Is he your big brother?" she asks Pisti.

"Something like that. He's always looking after me and protecting me" Pisti says smiling.

"Really? That's amazing! You seem like a really nice person, Ja'far-san."

Ja'far can't help but to blush a little at the praise: "Just call me Ja'far," he mumbles, trying to regain some composure as to not make the first impression of a complete wimp. Pisti would never let him live it down – her usually calm and collected 'big brother' being shy in front of a girl. He'd never hear the end of it.

"Pfft! Isn't he just another old man? His hair is also white, if you haven't noticed," the white-haired boy grumbles.

"No way! His hair is silver, not white! Besides, he seems like a very nice person! And he's much more handsome than you, idiot old-man!" Yamuraiha explains like it's the most obvious thing in the world.

"Whatever," the boy says coolly, apparently not in the mood for another verbal spat.

Pisti, though, grins widely, gets on her tiptoes, puts both of her hands on the boy's shoulder and pulls him down a bit, whispering teasingly in his ear: "Someone's _jealous._"

One.

Two.

Three.

"SHUT UP!"

Ja'far overhears and suddenly, he can't hold it in anymore. He starts laughing.

And Pisti is looking at him with bright eyes welled up with unshed tears, laughing as she launches herself at him and tackles him to the ground. She hugs him as tightly as she can, puts her chin on his shoulder and whispers in his ear: "You should do this more often."

The pair look at them oddly, but he doesn't care. He only hugs her tighter.

That night, the two of them lay together in the cold, hard bed, tangled among the thin sheets. She smiles as she whispers: "My stomach hurts from laughing. So do my cheeks."

"Mine too."

"Hey, Ja'far?" she says gently as she snuggles closer to him.

"Hmm?"

"I want my cheeks to always keep hurting."

He smiles and pinches her cheek: "I'll make sure of it," he promises.

* * *

The boy's name, they learn after many failed attempts (Yamuraiha would just yell: "Idiot swordsman!" – whether the question was directed to her or the boy himself) is Sharrkan.

And boy, can he hold a grudge.

Days turn into weeks and it's almost been a month, but he still shoots them unfriendly glares whenever they happen upon each other, accentuated with a hand on his sword whenever he locks eyes with Ja'far. But Pisti smiles innocently at him all the while and eventually – he starts giving her an odd smile back. She beams happily whenever that happens, drawing nothing short of a grin (albeit an involuntary one) from the stubborn boy's lips, and – even though Ja'far expertly hides it and won't admit it in a million years – from his own lips as well.

Yamuraiha, on the other hand, smiles whenever she isn't engaged in a fierce battle (verbal or physical, either seems to work) with her sworn enemy, as she sometimes refers to him. So yeah, she doesn't smile much more than Sharrkan does, in the end.

On sunny days they sneak outside, just for under an hour, since patrols are anything but rare during the day. Yamuraiha proclaims Sharrkan's worrisome condition the main reason for the absolute necessity of such actions. "Imagine what he would look like if he lost this color because he was always cooped up in that place! He'd probably look like he's going to be sick all the time. He'd be an _extremely_ unpleasant sight to behold," she says seriously, nodding to herself.

"I thought he already is one," notes Ja'far helpfully.

Yamuraiha smiles broadly at him: "He is. So let's not make matters worse, agreed?"

"Agreed," Ja'far and Pisti say simultaneously, earning a very angry look from the object of the conversation.

They head to a nearby lake and soon come to stand on a small wooden bridge across it. Pisti spots a turtle swimming leisurely under the bridge and soon both girls let out excited squeals and carelessly bend over the short fence to catch a glimpse of the turtle before it decides to dive. Sharrkan takes this opportunity to kick Yamuraiha in the butt with the sole of his foot and send her over the fence and into the water. For a minute, everything is quiet as Ja'far and Pisti look at him with identical looks of some terrible premonition.

"What?!" Sharrkan inquires, confused.

"Sharrkan," the voice sounds anything but angry. In fact, it sounds relaxed, almost pleased. The young sorceress is floating on her back on the water, a look of complete contentment gracing her features, blue hair meddling with tiny waves, fingertips absentmindedly stroking the turtle's head.

"Oh, it's a friendly turtle!" Pisti beams, forgetting about the evil premonition.

Ja'far takes her hand and whispers: "This is going to get bad. Come on." She frowns, clearly not understanding what he's getting at.

"Think. Did she ever call him by his name before?"

Realization dawns on her face and she scurries along obediently, throwing Sharrkan one last compassionate look.

"Sharrkan," Yamuraiha grins wickedly. "Did you forget I am a blue magician? Did you forget my specialty?" she asks all too nicely as she forms a big ball of water between her hands.

Sharrkan has only enough time to think: _'Oh crap,' _before a giant water balloon is coming for him.

Needless to say, they all end up soaked to skin and, since they have no way of explaining it to the guards, are given a standard punishment of three days without food. This time, Ja'far can hardly deem it worth it.

On cold, stormy nights, they steal a torch from the hallway and sit close together. Yamuraiha makes four balls of fire and levitates them so that one floats in front of each of them, as they reach out to warm their hands. Pisti once comments on how pretty they are. The young sorceress smiles kindly at her and says: "I like water better." But water is scarce for them, and they don't speak of it again.  
They share what little food they have and talk long into the night. Yamuraiha talks about magic and Sharrkan talks about swords, but there are no snide comments, no biting remarks. Their voices are quiet and gentle, their eyes show understanding and there are hints of smile on their faces.  
In the mornings they are back to their usual selves, bickering and bantering, but Ja'far can't help but think each of those nights bring them just a little bit closer. And the memories remain.

On the day of Sharrkan's thirteenth birthday, Ja'far steals a cake.  
Fresh out of a nearby bakery, it's probably the best cake any of them tasted in a long while. For Ja'far and Pisti, it's the best cake of their life. They've been here for as long as they can remember. He sometimes wonders how they managed to stay sane. He knows she saved him then, all those years ago, when they dumped the tiny blonde girl in his arms and left her in his care. He vaguely remembers fragile fingers wrapping around his own, toothless smiles and loud giggles and what it felt like to really smile, for the first time in his then eight years of living; no, existing – it was with her that he started to live.

Sharrkan mumbles a thank you.

He leaps on his feet then, eyes shining with childlike excitement, and yells: "Hey, witch! Get over here!

The said 'witch' grumbles something that sounds very much like: "Why the hell should I do what you tell me to," but complies anyway. Ja'far concludes it must be because it the guy's birthday, so she decided to cut him some slack.

The boy grins widely when she does what he demanded and moves so they are standing side to side.

"Hey, you guys!" he calls out to the other two. "Who's taller?"

'_So, that's what it was all about,' _Ja'far thinks, somewhat amused. Yamuraiha just growls about how, even if he's getting a year older, he is still an immature brat.

Ja'far takes a good look before proclaiming: "Yamuraiha," at the same time as Pisti confidently announces: "Sharrkan!"

Ja'far smirks and whispers into her ear: "He's standing on his toes."

A horrified look appears on her face as she takes a look to confirm his words: "Ahh! That's right. Sharrkan, you cheater! Yamu is taller."

A look of victory lights up the young sorceress's face. Sharrkan, on the other hand, sulks throughout the rest of the day.

* * *

They form a dynamic of their own - laughing or fighting, teasing, playing pranks, talking, sharing. They are a weird group, the four of them, but Ja'far suspects they laugh more than any other kid ever to enter these walls. The walls which are still there around them: heavy, suffocating, closing in. But it is in their moments together, only in their moments together – that they manage to crush those walls, if even for a second. It is in those moments that they manage to forget the world.

* * *

At other times, it's almost too much to take.

Yamuraiha is sitting on the bed one night, staring pointlessly at the ceiling, then at the floor, then at the ceiling again. Pisti and Sharrkan are nowhere in sight. Ja'far supposes they are out training.

He walks towards the girl's bed and tentatively sits next to her. There is a lump in his throat as he speaks:

"She was asking again."

The young sorceress seems to understand without further elaboration. "Let me guess," she sighs, keeping her gaze fixed to the ceiling. "Why?" (Why do we have to do this? Why do you do this? It's not right. Why don't you refuse?)

Ja'far nods.

"She'll come to understand."

He shakes his head gently: "Even if she does, even if she's forced to understand eventually…I don't think she'll ever be able to…" (Kill.) He knows that Pisti isn't weak. She can fight. She hates to, but she can. She's been trained for it her entire life. She isn't like the rest of them, though, and he doesn't think she ever will be. Ja'far carries his wires, Sharrkan his sword, Yamuraiha her staff. But Pisti doesn't carry her weapon around, despite being allowed to. There is too much kindness in her eyes and too much love in her heart. Ja'far has known it for a long time. This girl will never be able to take a life.

Yamuraiha turns her head to look at him, her expression solemn: "You're planning on running away," she states – a simple, confident statement, no doubt or wondering in her voice. "Once she has to…when she gets her first mission – when that time comes, you plan to run away."

"How did you – "

"She's your reason," the blue-haired girl says simply, a slight smile on her face. Ja'far understands. His reason for living, for fighting, for persisting. He can't help but ask:

"What's yours?"

She smiles, but there is no happiness in that smile: "There are many," she answers simply. He doesn't push her to elaborate.

"I should be so lucky."

She seems to contemplate this for a moment, then shakes her head and lets out a quiet, bitter laugh: "It only hurts more."

"Sometimes pain is good," he murmurs, more for himself than her.

"It reminds you." (Reminds you that you're alive. You're still fighting. You haven't lost yet.) It's almost unnerving how well this girl understands him. He wishes she didn't have to.

"How will I remind her? When the time comes?"

Her smile tells Ja'far that she has an answer.

"You'll hold her tight and you won't let go. You'll tell her how much you love her and that you can't bear to lose her. You'll whisper in her ear and speak of songs of the birds that she loves so much. You'll speak of warm sunshine and green meadows, of flowers and dancing girls, laughing children and the smell of fresh baked bread, of great ocean and it's power, lakes, rivers, even the smallest of torrents…" her voice becomes softer and softer as she speaks and, by the time she finishes, Ja'far can tell by the far-away look in her eyes that she is not only trying to give him an answer, but also to reassure herself.

They stay quiet for a long moment.

"She calls me Yamu-onee-chan sometimes, you know?" she laughs through the tears.

He pats her head gently as he softly replies: "I know."

* * *

Ja'far and Sharrkan never form much of an understanding. Nevertheless, there are some questions that keep gnawing on their minds, however hard they try to push them away and ignore them. One day, Sharrkan asks one of those questions:

"What's your reason?" Everyone has a reason, that much is understood, and, once again, no further elaboration is needed. What amuses Ja'far is a faint similarity of this conversation to his conversation with this boy's so-called greatest rival. He suppresses a knowing smile that threatens to break on his face.

"Pisti and…lately, you two," he answers. "What about you?"

He scratches his head in embarrassment: "You two…," he copies Ja'far's answer. "And…" He looks over Ja'far's shoulder and suddenly goes beet red. Ja'far doesn't have to look to know who is standing behind him.

"You know…" Sharrkan mumbles, his blush increasing tenfold.

Ja'far tries his best not to laugh. He fails. Miserably.

All too soon Sharrkan is going at him with his sword and Yamuraiha just looks confused. All in all, it's as normal a day as they get.

* * *

It is a windy night when it happens.

They would sometimes hear screaming in the night. From up above, where they knew the rich had their chambers. The thick dungeon walls felt as thin as paper on those nights. It wouldn't be long before it quieted down, only occasional cries remaining - so soft, faint that they could barely hear them. They would lie close to each other, Pisti's fingers digging into his shoulder blades, her cries much louder to him, much more real. He would shush her gently and tell her to go to sleep, even when he knew neither of them would be getting any sleep that night. They would turn a deaf ear and pretend they weren't real, praying for it to be over soon. The next morning, they could always recognize the girl, or, in some cases, the boy. They would have an empty look in their eyes.

They can't turn a deaf ear that night, though, because the screams coming from above are sickeningly familiar and very real. Pisti jolts awake, horror on her face as she screams:

"YAMU!"

They don't stop to think, running frantically towards Sharrkan's bed, but the boy is nowhere in sight.

"No," Ja'far breathes as realization dawns on his face. He puts his hands on Pisti's shoulders and says: "Stay here. I'll go."

Pisti runs after him anyway, but he knows he has no time to reason with her. They hear a series of crashes from up above, then nothing.

Ja'far takes out his wires and, with expert skill, binds the two guards on watch in front of the room's doors.

"You have no other weapon!" Pisti cries out.

He takes her by the hand and pulls her along, whispering: "We can't let the others see us. Those two will warn them, I can hear them shouting." They manage to get to the first floor without being noticed. They navigate through the narrow hallways until they reach their goal.

"This room. That's where it was coming from," Ja'far points and puts his hand on the handle. It's completely quiet now, and they are terrified of what that could mean.

They both squeeze their eyes shut as Ja'far pushes the door open.

The room is dark except for the two lit up torches at the other end, but with his trained eyes, Ja'far manages to make out something that makes him cover Pisti's eyes before she even dares to open them.

There is a human skeleton sprawled across the floor.

He walks towards it and crouches down to get a closer look, his hand still covering the eyes of a terrified girl next to him. He tries to pick up a bone. It turns to ash. His eyes widen as he takes in the burned skeleton, a couple of blue hairs on the floor and unlit torches on the walls.

"Ja'far," Pisti whimpers shaking furiously, hot tears wetting his hand.

He urges her out of the room and closes the door behind him.

"It's ok. They're still ok," he reassures her. He doesn't tell her how the sorceress's magic got out of control, burning the man to a crisp. _'Serves him right, son of a bitch,' _he thinks, but doesn't say. He realizes one thing, though, and he can't keep this from her:

"They're running away."

Pisti's head shots up, eyes suddenly filling with determination: "Let's go with them."

He gives her a curt nod.

* * *

They don't get far.

The guards apprehend them before they can reach the gates. They are beaten up and thrown into the cells and Ja'far knows three days with no food won't cut it this time. He desperately wishes that was his biggest concern.

He spends the night whispering empty promises into Pisti's ear.

In the morning, they are taken to the nearby river.

"The wind was strong yesterday's night," a guard speaks venomously. "Big waves. The bodies were washed away. There's no finding them now."

Ja'far doesn't register the words at all. He stares blankly at the ground. Before his feet, there lies a bloody sword. A few meters further, a muddy magic staff. He tries desperately to search for any sort of explanation, no matter how unbelievable. But he knows they would never in a million years let go of their weapons willingly, just like he knows no guard came back injured from yesterday's chase and there is simply too much blood…God, there is so much blood.

His knees give out and he falls to the ground. Pisti's cries feel a million miles away.


	3. Leave It All Behind

It's been a year from that day. He doesn't think they will ever be quite the same.

He has lied to her. God, he has lied so much. He said he would keep her laughing. She hasn't laughed since. He said it would be alright. It wasn't alright. It was never alright to begin with. But now it's even worse. And he can't lie anymore.

"I remember," he says, not looking at her face. It's not like he will ever be able to forget.

She takes out the picture of her target. It shows a middle-aged man, fair-haired and thin, with tired eyes but a warm smile on his face. Clinging to his arm and looking up at him is a girl around Pisti's age. Ja'far has to wonder about the man who drew this. Why draw the girl as well? It wasn't required. Was it simply his artistic sense? Was it sentiment? An act of pity? Or was it a much crueler reason – easier identification? What a messed up world they live in.

"It's his daughter, probably," Pisti says sadly, weakly. "I don't even know if he did anything wrong. How do you do it Ja'far?" she asks, desperately searching for an answer.

"I have a reason to," he remembers those conversations from a year ago. They seem so distant now.

She barely registers his words: "I could do it, you know," she muses, a hint of sick interest in her voice, in stark contrast to the earlier desperation. Ja'far cringes at the change. "If I knew he murdered someone innocent, or something as vile as that," she carries on. He can't help but notice the ease with which she speaks the horrible word she wouldn't let past her lips just a year ago. "I could, then. But they don't give reasons."

He can tell by her words - she is still so much different from him, from any of them, none of them ever even thinking about asking for a reason, about not carrying out the task, but, at the same time, she is more like them than she's ever been before. More than he thought she would ever become.

There is no other way out of this now.

He pinches her cheek: "Let's run away."

Her eyes are wide with fear as she shouts: "NO!"

He expected something like that. He takes a deep breath, getting ready for trying to persuade her. But she doesn't give him a chance to. Instead, she speaks urgently:

"They'll kill us both, Ja'far! I can't let you. I don't care if I die, but you, you – you said it yourself! You have a reason to live on and – "

"YOU are my reason to live on!" he shouts, then bites his lip hard to keep the tears from showing.

Pisti stares at him blankly, numb with shock.

He cradles her in his arms as he remembers Yamuraiha's words. So he holds her tight and speaks of love and sunshine, of bird's song and the blue skies they fly across, of green meadows so rare in the desert around them and dancing girls wearing veils of tiny flowers around their heads.

She breaks down crying.

After what feels like ages, she calms down and Ja'far can just barely hear a muffled 'okay' whispered into his chest. It's all he needs to make his decision final.

Soon, they will be free. In one way or another.

The thought gives him some kind of twisted satisfaction.

* * *

She is given three days to carry out her mission. Three days to plan their escape.

On the morning of the first day Ja'far heads out to carry out a mission on his own. It's the first time he feels grateful for being given one because, this time, his target is nothing more to him than a stepping stone, an opportunity. He gets the job done even quicker than usual.

Nobody is following him. They stopped to long ago, once they realized he would never try to escape alone. Not without her. He would teach them soon - sloth was a dangerous seductress.

He enters a shady place in an equally shady, narrow street. The shopkeeper smiles knowingly at him. He is, after all, a regular customer.

"So, how'd the last one go?" the voice is loaded with sick interest and plainly obvious bloodlust.

"Fine. Quick and clean, wouldn't interest you," Ja'far says through gritted teeth. He can't remember ever replying much differently. The shopkeeper often seems downright devastated at his unwillingness to share what he liked to call 'some juicy details'. Ja'far never quite stopped feeling the urge to vomit at the phrase. He suppresses it yet again.

"What will it be today?" the fat old man smirks, relishing the moment.

"Poison," Ja'far says quickly. "Deadly and quick. Immediate effect."

The man frowns, obviously unsatisfied with this request. He bends down and rummages through the desk drawers in search of something. He takes a small bottle of red liquid and holds it between his fingertips, a taunting smirk on his face.

"How much?"

"Too much. For you at least."

Ja'far sighs and pulls out a small bag of gold which he throws at the shopkeeper. He catches it with surprise evident in his eyes and pulls at the drawstring.

"A hefty amount," he notes. "How'd you get this?"

Ja'far doesn't reply. He thinks it fairly obvious.

The man's eyes glint excitedly: "Was there struggle? Any blood?" he inquires in a sickening tone.

Ja'far grabs the bottle laying forgotten on the counter, simply replies: "No," and exits the vile place before the shopkeeper has a chance to ask him any more questions. He honestly hopes he'll never have to enter it again.

* * *

"So, here's what we'll do," he starts explaining the plan to an anxious Pisti. "I'll dip my blades in poison, it has an immediate effect and is fatal if it comes to contact with blood. We can render many of them useless in a short time this way."

Pisti nods and says: "Mine too."

Ja'far looks at her, startled: "What?"

"My daggers. Do that to them as well."

He is shocked by the determination in her eyes, in her voice. "Are you sure?" he has to ask.

"Yes," she replies curtly, looking him, even if it's for no longer than a split second, straight in the eye.

"Alright," he nods in agreement. "When we get out of this place– "

"If."

He frowns: "_When _we get out of this place, we'll head for that small, old house about four streets away. You know which one, right?"

She nods.

"Okay. No one lives there as of late, I checked. But they aren't likely to know. We'll wait for them to pass, then head in the opposite direction and run as fast as we can, as long as we can. It's tricky. We have to make them follow us, so they have to see in which direction we're heading. But we have to be quick enough to slip into the house without them noticing."

"There are many shortcuts and narrow streets, we can use those. We're likely to lose them there," Pisti notes.

He smiles: "Here," he says, pulling out a piece of parchment from underneath his rags. "A map," he explains and starts pointing out the most convenient routes. Pisti nods all the while in understanding.

"We have to avoid curious eyes as much as possible, right. So, at night?" she asks. Clever girl.

"Obviously," he smiles.

* * *

And so the night comes.

It's quiet, dangerously quiet as they tiptoe through the dark, dimly lit halls. Two guards at the entrance to the main room are likely to be dead by now, Ja'far vaguely notes. It's hardly his main concern at the moment. The ones still alive are, however, and he cocks his ears at the silence and listens for any, even the slightest of sounds. Wind is howling outside and it takes him some time to get used to the unpleasant, but harmless melody, to distinguish it from the more threatening sounds.

He takes down the guards down one by one, carefully, meticulously, so the terrified, but determined girl next to him wouldn't have to pierce any flesh with those sharp daggers she clutches in her small hands. The way her fingers wrap around the handles is certain and methodical and Ja'far knows she'll be ready if the time should come. But he prays it doesn't, for both of their sakes.

It feels like years before they reach the main gates and once they do, Ja'far takes a hold of Pisti's hand and squeezes it tightly in encouragement, because he can see there is simply no way he would be able to take all of them down by himself.

She bites her lip hard enough to draw blood.

"Let's go," she whispers, stepping in front of him and taking the lead.

"Wait," he whispers urgently, not letting go of her hand. This is what he was afraid of. She doesn't think things through like she normally would. She can't focus. He puts his hands on her shoulder.

"Listen to me," he speaks harshly to make sure she registers his words. "We have to take them by surprise, we have no chance otherwise. I'll count to three, then we charge. Understood?"

She nods.

He swallows. "One," his grip on her shoulder tightens to the point of pain. She looks straight ahead, her expression not betraying a thing.

"Two," he kisses the top of her head, lingering for an unnecessary, dangerous second. He releases her from the half-hug. Her face is a mask. They could die in moments. He doesn't want that to be the last expression he gets to see on her face. _'Don't say it; don't say it. She doesn't need that right now.' _

"I love you."

There is the slightest smile on her face.

"Three."

* * *

She fights…gracefully. Her movements are quick and precise; she doesn't hesitate, for even a moment of hesitation is bound to be fatal. It's almost like she's dancing her way towards the exit, slowly, ever so slowly advancing towards their goal. It's painful to see her like this.

He cuts through the mass of faceless, dark figures mercilessly; making sure he the cuts are deep enough for the poison to take the effect. It will wear off soon, he realizes – after so many guards and their blood on the blades.

He takes a twisted pleasure in stabbing the guard who had laughed at them on the dawn they came to learn of their friends' fate. He makes sure to push the blade deep into his abdomen, twisting it in one swift, cruel motion. He's quite sure he knows how his eyes look as he watches the last ragged breath leave the guards body – malicious, snake-like. _'He didn't like that. That silly king.'_

_Live on._

So many dead; just a few to go. He can hear the bells starting to ring - the alarm. More will be coming now.

"GO!" he yells to Pisti as he starts running towards her.

She spins on her heel, stabs another guard coming at her and holds out her hand towards him, reaching. She starts running before they hands can meet in order to keep up the speed. He reaches out and grasps her by the wrist as he sprints past her, pulling her along.

Now they run.

* * *

"They've seen us," Ja'far pants. "Let's go. You see the alley? There, then right, right, left, then right again."

"Yeah," Pisti gasps for breath.

They navigate through the narrow alleys as quickly as they can, not turning back. It's dark, too dark, and they can barely see where they're going, but it means the guards will also have trouble tracking them, so it is, all in all, a fortunate circumstance.

There really shouldn't be people out so late at night. Nevertheless, when they finally get out of the alleys and on the main road, Pisti bums into someone.

"Watch where you're going!" a tall, middle-aged (judging by his voice) man yells and Ja'far can't help but cringe at the volume. That's the voice that carries.

"I'm sorry! I'm so sorry," Pisti apologizes profusely, bowing her head. Ja'far can tell by her horrified expression that she knows exactly what this seemingly tiny slip could mean.

The man doesn't spare her a glance, but simply walks away, muttering something like "damn brats nowadays" under his breath.

A split second of ominous silence occurs, so short it would be hard to claim it was even there, but threatening enough to be sure it was.

"Come on," Ja'far hurries her. "There's no helping it now. We'll have to wait and see"

They start running again and soon get to the old house that has been set to be their first step of the way. It's a house much like those in the slums, if in a slightly better condition. Wooden and slowly being eaten away by termites, damp and stinking of old cabbage and dead animals. He finds a dead cat in the corner of an empty room. _'Must have been a pet,_' Ja'far thinks. Why else would it end up dying cooped up in such a sad place?

They move to the windows and wait.

Suddenly, Pisti starts to shake violently. It takes a moment for Ja'far to notice her tears.

"So many," she wails, not bothering to cover her eyes with the palms of her hands, like so many other girls did when they cried. Pisti's tears always looked honest, even when she would fake them in order to get away with something, get them both (all four of them) out of trouble, or simply to get her way. Ja'far almost smiles at the memories. What's wrong with him?!

"They didn't even do anything! They were innocent. They probably had families too, most of them. And we killed them, all of them. Because I couldn't kill one man!"

He takes her chin in his hand and forces her to look at him: "Listen to me," he demands, urgency in his voice. "You know why we did it," he speaks in a softer voice. "We did it so we would never have to do it again. Not after today. Neither me nor you, not ever again."

Her eyes fill with hope: "Ever again?"

"Ever again," he promises and this time he's not lying. They'll either be free or dead after this. And both options are better than living this life. He knows she would agree with him.

Minutes pass, one by one. It's unnerving. They should have come by now.

He hears them before he sees them. He utters a quick: "They're coming," and continues to observe.

It's not good. They're pointing toward the house. They're coming this way. 'No, no, no, no, no!'

"Shit," he breathes and turns to face Pisti.

"He must have told them," she observes, and one could almost describe her expression as annoyed. Her reactions puzzled him, sometimes. But he doesn't have time to dwell on that.

"Quick! The back door," he all but pushes her towards it.

They get into the long unkempt backyard and dive into the thick bushes. There are thorns absolutely everywhere around them and they both soon start to bleed from the scratches. Pisti winces as he pulls one out of the palm of her hand, then proceeds to pull one from his own. But they grit their teeth and stay quiet. It's the only hope they have left. They can hear the guards enter the house.

"Not here either," they hear one grumble as they check the house.

"The back door," another one notices and Ja'far can feel his blood go cold.

He can feel Pisti trembling in fear next to him. He reaches out to put a hand on her shoulder, take her hand, touch her – anything to steady her, but he stops midway through – he realizes his hands are shaking as well.

A guard opens the door, takes a quick look around, peers into the bushes and apparently decides there is no one there. The doors are shut as quickly as they were opened. They can hear him inform the others. The guards grumble in annoyance, but feel no need to go check for themselves. Ja'far sighs in relief. He was right – sloth is a dangerous seductress.

"We head down the street. You two stay here, just in case," one of the guards commands.

Ja'far knew they wouldn't be so lucky to have them all leave. They listen to heavy footsteps leaving the house. The two ordered to keep watch grumble something intelligible, obviously not pleased with the situation. Pisti looks at him, anxious.

"What do we do now?" she whispers.

He hasn't thought this through. He always imagined only two possible outcomes – one - the plan works and two – they get caught. The situation at hand never occurred to him. He closes his eyes as he tries to concentrate. They have no place to go, no friends whose help to seek. No family, no caretakers, not even acquaintances.

There is one man, though.

It's stupid, completely reckless and bound to not end well. It's something a mad man, an utter fool would do. But it's also something a desperate man would do.

"We head to the palace."

It's their only hope.

He still can't believe that man actually managed to become a king; or form a country in the first place – the one they live in today. It sounded like a very far-fetched idea just three years ago. Memories engulf him.

He remembers those words:

'Live on_.'_

He remembers that smile – kind and mischievous at the same time, bordering with a smirk.

The eyes – determined, confident, honest.

Teasing tone of his voice when he complains – 'That's no way to talk to a king!'

His reply – 'You! A king? _Really?'_

The laughter – was it that man's? Or was it his own? The sound is vague.

The name.

Sinbad.

* * *

A/N - Ah, Sinbad, finally. I hope I don't annoy you with all the flashbacks, 'cause the next chapter will be another one - about Sinbad and Ja'far's past this time.  
The beginning of this story is kind of messed up, and it takes quite some time to get to what I really want to write and probably what you really want to read too.  
But I hope the next chapter makes up for it. At least Sinbad is finally here. This chapter was torture, by the way.

Please do leave a review! I really appreciate them.


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